


Metamorphosis

by kingthezeke



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Artistry, Falling In Love, First Love, M/M, Master/Apprentice, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-21 03:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11935692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingthezeke/pseuds/kingthezeke
Summary: Through the midst of the stifling smog was a fey, forlorn young man, whom had never seen the likes of mirth. His eyes were glistening with the dew of tears, turned heavenward, throat wreathed with thorns. The shadows and his features were angular and melancholic, but the piece overall was feminine and sumptuous. Alexander had never seen such grace upon a canvas, made by glamour out of oil. It was unlikely that he ever would again.For, quite apart from the shortcomings of perception, there is the difficulty of turning visual experiences into language.





	1. PART I: Roses for Rubens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the worriers and the warriors.](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the+worriers+and+the+warriors.).



He’s sure he has the right address. Unless, of course, the Frenchman had tormented him with directions to the nearest  slaughterhouse, in which case, he should head home. He doesn’t knock yet. He spends a moment composing himself, thinking _yes, you’re here, Alexander, do not back out now_. He is just going to express his admiration for the painter, reveal his portfolio, and humbly request an apprenticeship to the known master.

He smooths his doublet down and clears his throat. John had given him something nice to wear, and also combed his hair back for him. It was a sweet gesture, but Alexander’s hair is now wind-tossed and he’s sweating through his linen tunic. It occurs that he’s wearing too many layers of clothes.

He flinches as he raps on the large lacquered door three solid times and steps back. After a moment, he feels embarrassment flood his cheeks and his bones. He must look like a fool, standing in front of this imposing door. His sleeves are rumpled and he’s misplaced the band that usually keeps his hair tidy. His palms are clammy and he conceals his portfolio with sheepishness. He should turn around. There’s no possible way Mr Washington is home at this hour, and if he is, Alexander doesn’t want to meet him. He looks up at the sky. It’s getting dark fast. Nervously, he fixes the pins in his doublet and says a quick prayer. He knocks again.

This time, almost immediately, the door swings open and a stately gentleman about 45 years of well-worn age is standing before him, wiping his fingers with an oil rag. He has an expectant look, and Alexander embarrassedly presents his right hand.

“I’m Alexander, I live by the markets.” Beads of sweat are gathering over his brow.

Very slowly, the painter reaches out and clasps Alexander’s hand, shaking it firmly. “Washington.”

“Could I come in?” he blurts out, much to his own surprise. Washington seems taken aback, and almost critically, he mumbles,

“You forget yourself. May I ask what business you have here?”

“Of course, sir,” he stammers, hand still locked in Washington’s. “I sought you out.”

The painter does not seem particularly moved.

Alexander explains. “When I was a boy, my mother would take me to St Bartholomew’s fair in London. And while she quite enjoyed the festivities, I was a child and did not directly partake in the indulgences,” he rushes through his words, observing Washington’s disinterest. “And yet when I was ten, I saw a grand painting on a pedestal; it was lunar against a crimson drapery. The frame was ornate, fine gold with curlicues etched upon it. The subject was a long-suffering boy mounted with emotion--an eloquent appeal--but he was ripe with maturity and flattery.

“I am from this town. I’ve grown up modestly and I work in the coal mines now. I had long since forgotten the painting, sir, until yesterday, when I recognized it from across the marketplace. I had gone nearly hours inquiring if anyone had known who the master behind it was. Eventually, a Frenchman kindly informed me that the man responsible for it was named George Washington.” He pauses, guages the artist’s face. “You do know which piece I’m referring to, don’t you? A woeful boy with pursed, pink lips. He had brambles over his throat and leaves at his feet.”

Washington gives Alexander a strange look and says, “That piece is named _Giovanni Ricci_ . The title and my name were painted onto the frame at the bottom.”

“I can’t read, sir,”

“Your eloquence betrays you,” Washington mumbles, with a raised eyebrow. After a carefully considered moment, he asks, “Do you drink tea?”

Indigo evening nimbly dethrones the marigold sky and Alexander finds himself admiring wall tapestries hung as if they are the most beauty the world has ever beheld, kissing the oak panels that generously frame the plaster walls with his fingertips. There are various completed oil paintings balanced strategically against bookcases and stools, nearly glowing in the dim light. The subjects are all dainty young men with plump, pink lips and curious gazes in the midst of velvet drapery. Their expressions are polite and dignified, just on the slight side of seductive. Washington lights the beeswax candles and closes his windows as Alexander continues his earlier spiel.

“I find so much pleasure in your artwork, Mr Washington,” he remarks as he explores piece after piece from a respectable distance.

“It is appreciated.”

“Are all of your subjects young men?”

Washington is silent for a moment. He gives Alexander a thoughtful look and says, “Yes. As a matter of fact, they are.” With a glance toward his current work in progress, he says, “That one is of a boy I’d caught sight of by the conduits.” And indeed, it is a courtly portrait of soft blond and stale greys, embellishing a young man under a stone arch, deftly looking back over his slim shoulder at Alexander, as if he knows something Alexander doesn’t. His sharp eyes gaze back across the room, lithe fingers delicately splayed over the inchoate statue of some ambiguous mammal.

Alexander stares in stupefied awe. “Did he model for you?”

Washington, who has busied himself with cleaning his brushes, distractedly answers, “Unfortunately I hadn’t even gotten his name. What does he look like to you? "

“A John,” Alexander replies without hesitation. “I know a boy named John. He is the most beautiful man I’ve yet set eyes on. All Johns are beautiful men.”

The painter does not respond, to which Alexander continues,

“Have you ever had an apprentice?”

“I would have no need for one,” the man remarks, uninterested.

“Nonsense,” Alexander grins. “I could be your apprentice! I could stretch your canvases and clean your brushes and mix your paints, in exchange for any tips you have time to mention, or any lesson you would pray give.”

Washington moves to prepare the tea he had mentioned, giving Alexander’s words tentative thought. For some time, the only sounds between them are the clink of the china glasses and the pouring water. No immediate words are formed. He hands Alexander a small teacup and says, “I maintain. I have no need for an apprentice.”

Alexander’s smile falters a shade, but immediately he perks up and continues. “As I said, I work in the coal mines. Whenever I find charcoal, I save them so that I may draw with them.”

Washington sips his tea, and then nods. “I see.”

He produces his portfolio. “Would it please the gentleman to have a look?”

“Perhaps there is another artist somewhere in the city that will accept your gracious offer.”

Alexander frowns. “You haven’t yet seen what I am capable of, Mr Washington. I would become a devoted student and a humble companion,”

Slowly, the painter accepts the mass of papers, and with a short glance back toward Alexander, he sighs and begins to review them. He flips through the parchment, eyes hard. Very slowly, he begins to frown deeply, critically focusing on each page. Alexander’s heart shatters.

“What is it, Mr Washington?” Alarm is evident in his voice, quavering low in his stomach.

“Your drawings,” he mutters, flipping yet another page. He’s silent, and stares at one for a second longer, before flipping to the next page. “They’re all smudged. The charcoal must have smeared somehow. I can’t see a thing.”

Alexander nearly faints! “That can’t be!” He cries, rushing to Washington’s side, seeing for himself. He stares in shock. His pieces are just as Washington had explained them to be. The charcoal has apparently lifted and smeared, blending negative space into the skillful lines and shading Alexander had excitedly created. The sheets are just blots of ugly bruises. Nonsense. This time, tears sting his eyes and his mouth is thick with the prerequisite saliva of tears.

All of his hard work has bled into one massive mess of uncoordinated charcoal strokes! Washington must think he’s a joke. Somewhere in the back of his mind, beyond all of the embarrassment and desperation, he’s relieved Washington hadn’t been staring at his _drawings_ that same way.

Washington awkwardly drops a hand onto Alexander’s shoulder, at a loss for words as the boy stares at the stack of  ruined drawings. He tries to console him with his cold, monotonous voice. “There, there.”

Alexander pulls himself together and collects the papers from Washington’s hands without making eye contact. He isn’t sure what he would do if the look upon the master’s face were anything but--well, if the look upon his face were anything at all. Alexander’s cheeks are scorching with the blush that has formed. “My sincerest apologies for having wasted your precious time,” the boy mutters, hastily shoving the papers back into their oilcloth slip, not paying the rips and creases that will form any mind. He tucks his hair behind his ear--which he’s sure is messy again by now--and starts toward the door.

“Alexander,” the painter starts, moving to catch his wrist. “It happens to the best of us. I’m sure there’s a way to fix them.” He’s sincere, but Alexander won’t meet his gaze.

In silence, the boy leaves and bounds home so fast his shins burn.

Washington watches him from his doorway, unsure of what to think. The boy has got a way with words, which would flatter anyone, and an obvious passion for art which, again, would flatter anyone. And now that Washington considers it, he would have liked to see what the boy was capable of. If he had Alexander in clear view as an apprentice every day, perhaps he would have an excuse to paint a portrait of him and capture his energetic likeness. However, that in and of itself warrants a problem. Even within the hours of talking, Washington hadn’t seen the boy sit once.

He returns inside, and approaches his painting of the boy by the conduit. “John,” he says slowly, applying the name Alexander had suggested. For a brief moment, Washington almost thinks to call the boy _Alexander_ , but that would be far too inappropriate.

Perhaps one day he will paint Alexander, after all. And perhaps it will be his grandest piece.

 

Across town, it is quiet and the city-dwellers have retreated for the night. Alexander has made it home before midnight and he sits in quiet shame in the company of John Laurens, his closest friend and confidant.

“Well?” The freckled man asks in earnest anticipation. “What did he say?”

“Not much. He doesn’t talk much.”

“You made up for it, I’m sure,” John chuckles, crossing his arms. “What did he think of your drawings, Alex, did you show him?”

“Yes.”

There’s a silence that swallows up Alexander’s whole body and not for the first time, he would like to sink away into the ground and never reemerge. John seems to notice his friend’s pallid visage and takes notice that it is a very charmless expression for such a handsome man to allow. “I hope you didn’t make that face in front of Washington.”

Alexander doesn’t heed the pleasantry. He’s listlessly planning for his doom, calculating all the ways he will have to avoid Washington in the future.

John seems a bit more concerned now, frowning at the realization. “Oi. Alex. Did he not like the drawings?”

“It wasn’t that,” he mumbles hoarsely. “They were ruined when I handed them to him.”

“Ruined?” John raises his eyebrow. “Ruined how?”

“The charcoal,” he continues, in the same quiet tone. “Lifted. Smudged, or something of the like. I don’t remember. I’m going to bed.”

“Let me see them,” John demands. “They probably aren’t that bad.”

“I threw them into the manure pile on the way home.”

John would typically snicker at such a remark, but his concern for Alexander’s wellbeing overpowers his immaturity at the moment. “Then get some more drawings and take them back to him! Alex, you can’t just walk away from this! You’ve wanted this for some time!”

“Maybe I’m not meant to be an artist,” Alexander confesses. “Maybe I’m meant to work in the coal mines until I die. I wanted to convince him that he needed me and all I’ve accomplished was making myself look like a bigger fool than I already am.”

John’s freckles disappear in a flush of anger. “You don’t need him. It was his loss! There’s another artist in this damned town just _waiting_ for you to walk through their doors and they’ll thrust themselves at your feet and kiss the ground you walk on! What does Washington know anyway?”

John continues his diatribe, but it fades into white noise, because all Alexander can think of is the way his heart felt when he saw that piece for the first time. The one--Giovanni Ricci. It held a curious fascination in his young mind, but it also fueled his desire to create.

Washington is a rather broad, brawny man with daunting features. His mouth never hinted a smile when Alexander was with him and his eyes were always narrowly focused, as if scrutinising every detail Alexander displayed. He’d had a look of unapproachability, but Alexander cheerfully ignored it and indulged himself in the artist's’ presence. It’s curious to Alexander how a man of much power and bulk could paint as delicately and with as much panache as Washington he does. It’s almost amusing.

Without having heard a word John has said, Alexander interrupts him as he suddenly surfaces from his internalized emotions. “His paintings are gorgeous, John. The definition of beauty. I saw one that he’s painting now and the boy was so beautiful, I told him to name him John.” It’s sincere but a clear attempt to change the subject. John will have none of it.

“ _Alex_.”

“You would understand what I’m going on about if you had witnessed his talent,” he continues dreamily, as if in a trance. “His men are Adam’s Eve. They’re all alluring and breathtaking.” He wonders if the painter has a particular taste for men. “He paints with a such level of elegance and intelligence that angels would weep.”

“They’re pretty, Alex,” John mutters dismissively, jealousy scorching the heat of his tone. “I understand.”

“They are more than _pretty_ , John. Flowers are pretty. Rainbows are pretty. Mr Washington makes _art_ ,” and he begins his spiel, heart swelling. “Art can be appreciated on so many more levels of elevation and depth. It requires emotional intelligence to approach a piece as lovely as _Giovanni Ricci_ and see more than flesh and colors. To see a man is to see one thing, but to see the man as a symbol is another. Imagine what he was _thinking_ as he sculpted the subject’s shoulder blades and the pain in his eyes as he winded his neck with thorns.”

“I think you’re being a bit melodramatic, Alex,” John says pointedly.

“Clearly you don’t understand.”

John’s expression is one of indignation. “Be that as it may, Alexander. No, I do not understand art down to the paint strokes, but I, at least, give you the time of day.”

Alexander shifts, sighing. “Yes, I know. But perhaps I could somehow send one of his pieces to Venice. And Perhaps Mr Washington would go there with it. And perhaps he will appreciate me and have me as his companion.”

“Venice?” John asks. “Who would want to go there?”

“Every artist worth remembering goes to Venice, John. It’s the heart of all artistic endeavors. The august company of the world.” He sighs. To Alexander, the cachet of Italy is something he could only dream of. But Mr Washington is already halfway there.

“If he’s so good, what makes you think he hasn’t already been?” John inquires.

Alexander chuckles at the boldness of the question.“He wouldn't be back here. Nobody that goes _there_ in their right mind would come back _here_.” He crosses his arms. “He’s a smart man. He wouldn’t come back.”

“Would you like to go to Venice?” It’s an innocent question, but the look on John’s face is apprehensive. How could he ever live without Alexander?

“Yes.”

There’s a natural pause as John realizes something that he was ignorant to before. There is no way he could have Alexander forever. “Then go.”

“I don’t have the potential. I’m no artist. I’m not even an apprentice,” he stares for a long while down at his feet before saying, “That’s why I approached Mr Washington. He could have helped me achieve legitimacy.”

John suddenly understands his position in Alexander’s life. He, like many other people, is just a catalyst for Alexander. A stepping stone. The boy doesn't stay for anyone. He doesn’t say anything.

Eventually, the boy mumbles, “I’m going to bed, John.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, and here we go again. Next update TBD. 
> 
> drop a comment :)


	2. PART II: Botticelli's Black Bears

Days become longer and the nights become shorter as the cold fronts retire beyond the mountains on the horizon. The sun shines until well after eight o’clock at night and the flowers have reclaimed their grassy fields. The air becomes thick with heat and humidity, dousing Alexander’s face with a sheen of sweat. Even a shallow breeze has him leaning into it, closing his eyes as it cools him. He’s never particularly enjoyed the heat.   
  


By now, his dreams of being an artist have laid to rest. Months have passed since his encounter with Washington and he has long since ignored the nagging in the back of his skull. Sometimes, the ghosts of his dreams still haunt him in his wake. They come when he is focused on his work and he accidentally nicks a lump of charcoal into his lap. They haunt him when he hears mention of Venice, or when he sees a blond boy by the grey conduit. They especially strafe him when he remembers Washington’s steady gaze and careful conduct.   
  


It occurs to him that perhaps he had been more upset about being rejected by Washington in general than having his request of apprenticeship  turned down. John still reminds him that there are other artists in town--quite possibly better than Washington, himself.  _ No _ , Alexander would think.  _ I want Mr Washington _ .   
  


And that’s that. Once he has the thought in his mind, it’s  _ that  _ dream that he can’t shake. Alexander has never desired a man the way he had desired women in the past. He never paid attention to physical likeness of Grecian athletes or the attributes of their robust faces, like Jupiter himself. But every aspect of Washington has captivated Alexander, and he is more than eager to embrace it. It evokes an odd curiosity that he has been unaware of, until recently. The vision of Washington’s practiced hands touching him gently and roughly and gripping him and caressing him. His calm voice and controlled composure is what really attracts Alexander. Some nights, when John is in the arms of Morpheus sleeping soundly, Alexander’s hands venture below his navel when his mind wanders to Washington. He huffs and whines when his imagination has manifested a clear vision of Washington handling him.   
  


But alas, he remains as he has always been: not a proper artist, and without Washington.  
  


Ideally, he would have marched in and demanded the apprenticeship. Ideally, Washington wouldn’t have been able to resist him. But the natural order of things is much more cruel, and much less chimerical. He remembers that Washington is a respected, esteemed, well established gentleman, who would never dream of having Alexander as an apprentice, much less dream of taking him to bed. Washington and Alexander exist in two different realities, and that much is evident.   
  


He settles on the fact that he could never have Washington. However, his imagination is much more interesting than reality. For example, Alexander recognizes that the likelihood of George Washington ever kissing his neck with the same level of passion he has for art is very slim. But in his mind, it happens every night.   
  


He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, sighing. He gets back to work. 

  
  
  
  
  


Back home, John stirs the broth over the fire, wiping his cutting board off with seasoned expertise. One swipe of a scrap of cloth and the whole board is spotless. He hums a tune Alexander’s mother taught him when they were both children, clinging to her like newborns. He doesn’t quite remember the words; the song mentioned something of a Molly Malone and that is all he can remember. This is tranquility. Not having Alexander in their home, but knowing he will be back soon. When Alexander is here, there is nothing more that he wants than for the boy to shut up. When Alexander is gone, all John wants to do is hear his voice. But he has found a happy medium: having him gone, and yet anticipating his return. It’s John’s favorite part of the day.   
  


While the broth boils, John finds himself returning household items to their respected places, which Alexander obviously hadn’t bothered to do. He finds a backscratcher under their woven rug, which John had been desperately looking for, the last few days. As he returns it to his room, a rap on the door has his heart barreling out of his chest. It’s far too early in the day for it to be Alexander--he checks the sky just in case--and goes to answer the door.   
  


He is soon facing a rather large, serious looking man, staring down at John with some form of confusion and apprehension. His dark eyes bore through John: sunlight penetrating white linens draped on a clothesline.  
  


“I’m...looking for Alexander. Is he here?” The man asks, glancing over John’s shoulder, into their home.   
  


“Who gave you this address?” John snaps, almost protectively.   
  


“A man in the marketplace said I might find him here.” He casts his glance over John’s face and settles it there. “Is he here or isn’t he?”  
  


“He lives here, yes.”  
  


A beat of silence. “Who are you?”  
  


John’s expression is one of contempt. “You come to  _ my  _ home and ask me  _ my  _ name?”  
  


“Well, if Alexander is not here, I’d like to know who I’m speaking to.”  
  


“John. And you are?”  
  


A look of relief passes over the man’s face. “A painter.” He produces a sheet of parchment, kept in fine condition. “He visited me in February. I recently found this under my chair. I believe it belongs to him.”  
  


John takes the sheet carefully, studies it, and within a second, knows it’s Alexander’s. It’s a flawless capture of John tying his hair back, in a less than modest garment, just barely concealing his otherwise nude lap. He flushes and avoids the man’s eyes in embarrassment. “Do you want to come in?”   
  


“I should be on my way soon,” the painter says flatly. “I wanted to return that. And perhaps speak with the boy, God willing.”  
  


“He works at the coal mine during the day. But you shouldn’t trouble yourself with going all the way down there when you could accept my invitation to come inside, instead.” He spares a glance back down at the sheet, where his abdomen is stretched gracefully, toes pointed, lips plump. If this is how Alexander truly sees him, for all one knows, all is not lost.   
  


“I see no fault in your logic,” the painter complies. “Very well then. Do you have tea?”  
  


“Of course we don’t,” John says, annoyed almost. “We have clean water. Would that please the gentleman?”  
  


The painter smiles, contrite. “It’s no matter. Thirst no longer lingers.” He steps inside once John moves, and the man feels almost too big for the tiny house. “I admire your...organization.”  
  


John looks around with him. “I apologize for the mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors and Alexander isn’t quite the neatest, as you could probably tell.” He resumes scrambling to straighten things up, as he had been doing before the painter arrived.  
  


The man chuckles. “I’m not at all bothered. Tell me, what is he like?”  
  


“Who, Alex?” John looks to the guest for confirmation, and upon receiving affirmation, he ponders. “Obnoxious. He complains a lot. And he never hangs his laundry out to dry; I often end up having to do it for him. And he’s dangerously loquacious. He’s argumentative. Challenging.” He pauses. “But the most brilliant person I’ve ever met. And he’s the hardest working. And by God, is he ever charming.”  
  


“So what you’re telling me is that he has  _ some  _ redeeming qualities,” the painter inquires.   
  


“He’s a delight,” John says sincerely. “But he has his days.”  
  


The man chuckles. “How long have you known each other?”  
  


“Since we wore nappies and were losing teeth,” he says with nostalgia.   
  


“So you know Alexander pretty well, then.” It’s less of a question, more of an observation. “Has he always done art?”   
  


“He went through phases of intense  _ attention  _ to art. At first, he would wander all over town in search for artworks and then he would get so distracted by work, he’d sleep if he wasn’t at the mines. Then, he would see a statue being transported in pieces and would come home and pour his heart out about the beauty of art. A week later, he would be too tired to bother talking about anything outside of supper and sleep. In about a month’s time, he would have an idea for a piece suddenly and would talk for hours about it. Eventually, he took up drawing as an avocation. I would model for him if he asked. Some things,” he motions to the picture the man had handed him. “He drew spontaneously.”   
  


The painter nods with gratuitous interest. “Has he ever had formal training?”  
  


“As in an apprenticeship? Heavens, no. He’s gone and taught himself.” John says this proudly, appreciating the look of interest on the man’s face.   
  


“Marvelous. He’s a natural.” It’s sincere.   
  


“I tell him as much all the time.”  
  


“Does he have any more that I might be able to take a look at?” he asks suddenly. “I would like to get a full range of his strengths and weaknesses.”  
  


John retreats to Alexander’s room, rifling through his papers in search of any drawings he might have stored away. He didn’t realize how difficult it would be to find examples of Alexander’s talent, especially since the boy would draw whenever he wasn’t at work. He’s muttering prayers, begging whichever god is present to let him find  _ something  _ to show the man. He could be wrong, but he feels like this is the man Alexander went on about in prolonged agony. Perhaps if John makes a good impression, Alexander will have a better chance of earning the apprenticeship. Eventually, he finds a few pages, and returns to the guest.   
  


“Here you are,” John says promptly, handing him a few of what John would assume are Alexander’s prized papers. Four drawings, one of which is a self portrait, and another is a simple drawing of three beautified women daintily holding the skirt of their dresses. The third is a sketch of a young boy holding a stray dog, which John remembers Alexander excitedly relaying the story on his return home from work. The fourth piece is serious study of a headless figure, reclined and nude, ambiguous of which sex it could be. Nonetheless, it is breathtaking.   
  


“These are astonishing,” the painter muses as he sifts through the drawings. “I’ve been rendered speechless.”  
  


John smiles smugly. “Yes, Alex is incredible.”  
  


The painter arranges the papers neatly into a stack and taps them into place on his knee. “I’ve never beheld such talent. When did you say he would be back?”  
  


“Tonight. He gets back after seven, usually,” John responds, glad that he did Alexander at least some justice.   
  


The painter frowns. “My. That won’t be nearly soon enough.”  
  


“Eager to see him?” John probes, still smug.   
  


“Not exactly. I am leaving town for ten days. I was hoping I might have the opportunity to speak with him before I left today. However it doesn’t look like I will be able to.” His gaze turns to John. “Anyway, I’ve got to be going soon.”  
  


John collects the papers and smiles. “I’ll tell him you stopped by.”  
  


“Don’t,” the painter says shortly but firmly.  At John’s expressed confusion and slight concern, he explains. “You would not hear the end of it for ten days. I would rather spare you the misery. I’ll come here to see him once I’ve regrouped from my travels.”  
  


Johns heeds this and appreciates the input. He hadn’t considered that Alexander would wear him out after hearing the painter visited. “Heeded. Either way, he will be ecstatic, thank you.”   
  


The man simply smiles, and sighs. “I’m truly overjoyed.” Even if he is, it is not evident. He remains even-tempered, just as John has since observed him to be. “It’s been a pleasure, John.” His hand is extended to be shaken and John takes it firmly, seeing him out.   
  


He is alone again, staring at the mess he has left to clean up. Alexander’s hard work is finally being recognized by the man he admires the most. Things may be different from now on. Part of it makes him sick. However, he remembers his broth needs stirring, and heads back into the kitchen. 

  
  
  
  


That evening, Alexander swings the front door open, trudging into his home and sighing with relief as he plops down onto his sofa. “Oh, John. I think I’m about to lose my mind.”  
  


“You say that like it hasn’t already happened,” John mumbles, not looking up from his business. “Supper is ready.”  
  


There’s a silence as Alexander spots his drawings on the shelf by the door. Curiously, he knits his eyebrows. “Did you go through my things?”  
  


Again, John mumbles without looking up, “All for a good cause.”  
  


Alexander, in surprise, picks up a page he hasn’t seen for some time--the drawing of John tying his hair back. “Where’d you find this?”  
  


This time, John looks up to find Alexander displaying the drawing. “Oh. You know,” he says casually. “Lying around.”  
  


He furrows his brows, but doesn’t question the strange curtness of his friend. “What’s for supper?”  
  


“The usual. There’s bread in there somewhere. I went to the marketplace this morning.” He continues minding his business, resisting the urge to mention Washington. He knows that if he says more than a few words, he will not be able to resist telling Alexander. Even the slightest nod toward the painter would set the boy off. Clever bastard.  
  


Alexander retrieves the bread and fixes himself a large helping, mumbling, “It’s far too hot these days to eat broth, John.”  
  


“As true as that may be, Alexander, broth is the only thing I know how to make,” he glares in the boy’s general direction. “What would you prefer to eat?”   
  


“Something with more flavor, I suppose,” Alexander says flatly. “Why are you acting like that?”  
  


“Like what?” John asks innocently.   
  


“You’re acting strange.” Alexander remarks suspiciously. Then, he nears John, studying him intently. “What’s that you’re reading?”  
  


“I don’t know,” John confesses. Neither of the two has had any sort of education to achieve even a basic reading level. He puts the book down. “I promised I wouldn’t say anything.”  
  


“Do you have a surprise for me, John?” Alexander raises his eyebrows. “You know I’m no good with those. I get so impatient,”  
  


“Your impatience is part of the problem,” John remarks, crossing his arms. “And there is no point in bothering me about it. I won’t tell,” but he isn’t even half serious. John is easily swayed by Alexander, and he’s so excited for the good news, he’s surprised he hadn’t blurted it out as soon as Alexander walked through the door.   
  


“You can’t keep a secret,” Alexander hums, without a hint of malice. “You want to tell me, just as much as I want to know.”  
  


“Nope,”  
  


Alexander smiles, barely fazed. “ _ John _ , I have a right to know if it concerns me.”  
  


“Therein lies the paradox,” the freckled man retorts. “It has nothing to do with you.”  
  


“So why won’t you tell me?” Alexander whines.   
  


“Because I said I wouldn’t!” John fusses. “Now stop asking me before I give in and tell you!”

 

Alexander laughs, slurping his broth, much to John’s annoyance. “Then you don’t have to tell me. What if I just guessed instead?”  
  


“ _ No _ , Alex. You’re going to be the death of me,”  
  


“What a noble way to die, methinks,”  
  


“Do you ever stop talking?” John groans, eyeing Alexander wearily.   
  


The younger man snickers as he finishes his broth, munching on his portion of bread. He pays John no mind, collecting his drawings and taking them back to his room, studying the one he hadn’t seen for a while. He could have sworn he’d taken this one to Mr Washington, but then again, he could be wrong.   
  


He sets the drawings aside and gets ready for bed.

  
  
  
  


Washington’s lack of enthusiasm is a healthy component of his tame personality. And yet, he is thrilled when he finally returns home from his travels, calculating the best way to approach the situation. He hasn’t stopped thinking about Alexander’s skill and natural talent. Of course, there is always room for improvement, but this boy is something of a prodigy.  
  


Washington had travelled to London to sell a few pieces and shake a few hands, and while he enjoyed the cachet of being an artist, he preferred to be in his studio. He’d met some dukes, whom had inquired about his subject matter, and he’d met some young women, whom had flirted very shyly with him. He was mostly looking forward to seeing Alexander, and speaking to him again. Now he’s back home, returning his things into their proper places on his shelves, emptying his luggage and tidying things up.   
  


According to the clock, it is half past six and Washington realizes that he’s hungry. He decides that he should have time to dine, even though he’s exhausted from his travels. He eats a handful of dried cranberries as he rearranges the books on his shelf to his liking, straightening up the canvases that slumped against the wall. He folds his clothes neatly and smooths the sheets over his bed meticulously. He even sweeps his entire house because he can’t think of a reason not to. After he’s satisfied with his surroundings, he prepares to venture back out to find Alexander, who should be home by now.   
  


The children playing kickball on the dirt roads squeal with laughter, which he mildly appreciates. Alley cats sleep in the open sun, where the light pours in through the scattered clouds. Two young men lifting a wooden crate ask how he is as he passes by, and he says something vaguely positive, avoiding stepping into piles of manure as a flock of chickens squabble past him, clucking frantically. The streets are never silent, unless the sun has retired and the moon takes precedence in the sky.   
  


He walks with his hands in his pockets, through the marketplace, averting from his path long enough to admire the shades of reds and gold in the firm apples stacked up neatly in the crates. Immediately, he has the vision of painting a young man with a fondness for apples, reminiscent of an apple blossom, himself. He enjoys the breeze that refreshes his lungs, taking in a deep breath as he comes to terms with his future. With Alexander, he’s certain nothing will be the same.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU ARE HERE FROM SMOKE BREAK: 
> 
> I am currently dealing with a very close death in the family and so I have not been able to bring myself to write. No this is not another 8 month hiatus, I just need some time to collect myself before I can commit to writing again. I am still insanely busy with school but the only reason I was able to upload this chapter is because I had it prepared several months in advance (I wanted to upload the story once it was completed.) 
> 
> That being said, I don't know when I will be uploading chapter 40 (on Smoke Break) because I haven't written it yet but I hope you all can understand that I am going through a grieving process and unfortunately, Smoke Break is not one of my top-top priorities. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy Metamorphosis (I worked tirelessly on this project throughout the summer) & I will periodically upload. 
> 
> Thank you for your time and patience.


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